Vivere nel Peccato
by Serpentine Wisdom
Summary: When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults." -Brian Aldiss. Ch 3: Squalo pays Yamamoto a visit after his first hit.
1. Gokudera

**Title:** Vivere nel Peccato

**Author: **Serpentine Wisdom  
**Status:** 1/?**  
Theme:** When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults. -Brian Aldiss  
**Characters: **Tsuna, Gokudera**  
Pairings:** None (in this chapter, at least)

**Word Count:** 2478  
**Rating:** T**  
Disclaimer:** I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or any of it's characters and I'm not making any profit out of this.**  
Summary:** Considering what his father had done, why did Gokudera want to be a mafioso so badly?

**Author notes:** Originally this was supposed to be a series of short drabbles centring on this theme but it seems I am incapable of writing anything shorter than two pages… It's just every time a read through what I've written I find something I can improve a little or a sentence that would be really cool but that I need to write a paragraph or two to build up to it and maybe there needs to be more dialogue and perhaps a bit more descriptive… that's basically how it goes… Anyway, I decided to post these as individual chapters in a short story collection instead. Figured it would be easier to read that way instead of cramming all of the stories together in a single chapter.

By the way, I found the title on an online english-italian dictionary and supposedly it means 'walk in darkness'. Considering how dark my stories tend to be (even when I don't consciously try to make them like that…) I thought it was rather fitting.

--

For a moment, Gokudera was stunned. The half-smoked cigarette that had been dangling precariously from his lips fell from his aping mouth to the wooden floor of Tsuna's room. For a few seconds the action didn't register in his mind, then he hurriedly stomped his foot down putting of the still glowing embers of the tip of the cigarette, smearing ashes into his pale grey socks.

"I'm sorry, Tenth!" He burst out, eyes shut as he kneeled and bowed his head in apology. It was a gesture he had only learned a few days after he first arrived in Japan through a textbook but had taken to using. Since the Tenth was Japanese he had felt it was only appropriate even if it had been strange and a bit disconcerting in the beginning.

"Don't worry about it, Gokudera-kun" the Tenth said exasperatedly, waving his hand in a dismissive fashion. "Could you please stop bowing now."

Even though he had known from the start that the Tenth would forgive him for such a small transgression, relief still flooded through him. In some ways, that feeling of relief terrified Gokudera. Since early childhood, he had only ever relied on himself and soon learned how not to care what others thought about him. He had been alone, but he had been independent and that self-sufficiency had become a source of pride to him, a small comfort in a cold world. But there was nothing independent about his connection to the Tenth, nothing at all. For the first time in who knew how many years, someone else's opinion mattered. Now, Gokudera had something to lose and it scared him senseless.

"So," the Tenth said, shifting uncomfortably on his spot sitting cross-legged on the floor, his fingers tapping an even rhythm against the small table that separated the two of them.

"Oh!" Gokudera exclaimed softly, and embarrassed blush spreading across his cheeks. "The question, right."

"Um, you don't have to answer," the Tenth said quickly. "I was just curious. It's not like it's important. I mean, it _is_ important, but it isn't important that you answer."

"I don't mind if it's the Tenth," Gokudera replied earnestly before the Tenth could say anything more.

Gokudera was silent for a little while, trying to find the right words. "I was just a kid who knew shit about real life back then," he said casually. "I didn't really think all that much about what really went on in the beginning, I just thought my father's men looked so cool in their suits and with their guns that I wanted to be like them. It's not like a kid knows anything about the Mafia."

Glancing at the Tenth, Gokudera saw the beginnings of a worried frown that made him realise his forced cheeriness wasn't fooling anyone. Gokudera didn't want to weigh the Tenth down with his problems but his blasé attitude felt as fake and plastic to him as it probably did for the Tenth. It was such a thin rouse that even that fucking baseball moron wouldn't have been able to laugh it off and such a futile gesture that Gokudera wondered why he even bothered. "It wasn't until later that I…" he hesitated, searching for a gentler way of expressing himself, "became aware of what cosa nostra was all about."

"Then why did you still want to be a mafioso?" The Tenth asked, raising an eyebrow curiously. His large doe brown eyes were staring intently straight into Gokudera's green ones in that particular way that made Gokudera feel willing to do anything at all just to keep that shine fixated on him. Even if he had to tear his own beating heart out and lay it down by his feet as an offering. That was just the way things were. It was impossible for Gokudera to deny that stare anything. Because the Tenth was important, and Gokudera was not – not in comparison.

Some would have protested, crying out that all men are equal. But the world had never been equal and never would be. Since birth, everyone was different and, as a consequence, unequal. True equality could never be reached when everything didn't only depend on your own inborn abilities but also on where and to whom you were born. There would be great people, and there would be those that followed them. Of course, as society had proven numerous times, great men were often bad men. And Gokudera had learned early on that those with power could do whatever they wanted to those weaker than them and no amount of soft-minded drivel about equality would ever change that truth. The Tenth was one of the few exceptions from that rule about great men, but Gokudera didn't need any of that 'we're all equal' shit anyway. Not because he knew it wasn't true, which he did, but because he wasn't presumptuous enough to place himself on the same level as the Tenth.

"Gokudera-kun?"

"I don't know," he said finally, straightening his back. "I guess I didn't have anywhere else to go, I suppose. Not after my mother."

As always when his thoughts turned to his mother, Gokudera found his mouth clamping shut, his teeth grinding against one another. The silence between him and the Tenth was like a thick wall and with considerable effort he forced his eyelids shut to stop the tears from brimming over. He didn't want to cry in front of his boss, not only because it was shameful but because the Tenth would misunderstand the meaning of the tears born out of rage for tears of grief. Silently he began to count down; his hands fisted so tight his knuckles shone white against his tanned skin. The only sound in the room, besides the constant ticking of the clock was the telltale creaking of well-worn wood as the Tenth squirmed uneasily ahead of him. As he slowly opened his eyes again, his vision at first blurry, his breathing had calmed down and the tenth's eyes were downcast and darting from side to side.

Soon, Gokudera predicted, the Tenth would attempt to change the subject to spare his subordinates feelings. Before the Tenth said anything he opened his mouth, struggling to find the right words, only to close it again – silently cursing his lack of eloquence. It was only a few sentences, why was it so difficult to voice them?

"You don't have to do this Gokudera-kun," the Tenth said, voice heavy with sympathy that almost bordered on pity.

"I know," he said. "But I will anyway."

He looked around the room as he considered what to say. Taking note of the bright cheery colours, the simple but somehow inviting desk and the soothing, warm feeling the room inspired. Their lives were so different, perhaps that was why he couldn't find the right words. From his childhood of lavish, luxurious rooms in his father's castle to the room he was currently renting in the worst part of town he had gone from one extreme to another. His room, third-rate at best with no furniture other than a small bed and nightstand table, had various plans and mathematical calculations plastered all over the walls and looked more like a terrorist hideout in a third world country than anything else.

"My world fell apart when I heard my father had been responsible for my mother's death," he began tonelessly, reciting it as if he was reading out loud from a textbook. "They say trauma can change your perspective. My perspective changed so much you could say I belong there, in cosa nostra." His lips quirked humourlessly. " I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Gokudera-kun…" The Tenth said, the worried crinkle between his brows deepening. "You'll always be welcome here if you want to. Even if you're not in the mafia."

His small, humourless smirk bloomed into a genuine smile for a short moment as he felt oddly touched at his boss' words. There was a time when those words wouldn't have been true, no matter how hard Gokudera had wished for it. It was moments like these that he was reminded exactly why he had given this man his life and soul, swearing an oath only death could take back. Then the smile faded when his mind returned to the discussion at hand. "I appreciate it," he said as warmly as he could muster," but I think you misunderstood."

"What do you mean?" And the Tenth frowned in the way he did when attempting to solve a particularly difficult homework question.

"I'm a mafioso," Gokudera said calmly, speaking as if it were an unchangeable, determined fact. "It isn't just what I am. It's who I am down to the core of my heart." At this he lifted his left hand and patted his chest right over his heart. "I could probably live a decent life anywhere if I wanted to. But wherever I go, there is only one world where I belong."

"Gokudera-kun… " The Tenth's voice interrupted softly, his face scrunching up almost as if he were in pain. "How can you be so sure? How can you be so committed to them, the Mafia?"

Gokudera looked away from the Tenth, focusing instead on the grey fabric of his socks. He wondered what the Tenth would say if he told him something that he had never admitted to anyone else. It wasn't much of a secret as secrets went, but it was private and intensely personal but at the same time he felt a nagging need to say it.

"Because I understood it," he settled for after a while, still staring at his socks.

"Understood what?" There was nothing judging or condemning in the Tenth's features but he couldn't count on it to last.

"You have to understand," Gokudera said, his voice turning frosty by old memories replaying themselves in his mind like a broken record – as fresh to him as the day they had occurred. "I hate my father more than anything else. That will never change. But when I heard what he had done… I understood it."

The Tenth was silent but Gokudera's throat tightened as he imagined the shocked look on his boss' face, picturing the shock slowly morphing into a mixture of stunned horror and disgust. Gokudera didn't know if he could survive without the Tenth, without a place to belong to, anymore. It was vaguely ironic that he was the one tearing apart the relationship he needed so badly. Clenching and unclenching his fists, feeling his palms sticky with perspiration, he continued, straining to keep his voice from shaking. "He used to be madly in love with her, not enough to give up his life as a mafia boss, but enough to promise her everything else between Heaven and Earth. He didn't live up to his words and when the passion faded she became little more then a nuisance to him. As the mother of his child he made certain allowances for her but later when she involved herself in the Famiglia to fight for the right to raise me, she became a problem and he got rid of her."

Got rid of her. It sounded like a clean, easy solution –almost like taking out the garbage– and it probably had been for his father but it didn't take into account any of the pain and despair that had followed in its wake. Gokudera let his head loll down toward his chest, the painful thudding of his heart making it hard to look the Tenth in the face, and smiled wryly. "It was simple really. Very rational, even if it pisses me off. But the worst part is that I don't know if I wouldn't have made the same fucking decision."

The Tenth still hadn't said a word and Gokudera couldn't bear to lift his head and face the inevitable shock and disappointment of the person most important to him. The ticking of the Tenth's bedroom clock was suddenly loud and intrusive, each tick like a stab in his heart. Perspiration was making his clothes stick to him uncomfortably and he shifted nervously, feeling the weight of the Tenth's stare. Then a warm hand touched his right shoulder comfortingly and Gokudera's head shot up, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging half-open. He stared at the hand on his shoulder; it looked too small and fragile for a man of his standing. Then his eyes traveled along the blue-sleeved arm up to the Tenth's sympathetic face. The light streaming through the window created a soft halo around his head and Gokudera wondered, dizzy with awe, if this was what religious people felt in the face of God.

"I don't think you would," he said hesitantly while he rubbed Gokudera's shoulder, almost as if consoling a small child. But despite the slight uncertainty staining his tone, he spoke with deep conviction. It was the kind of conviction that only someone that had never been broken apart to his most basic components, as Gokudera once had been, could have.

The muscles that had unconsciously tensed in Gokudera's body relaxed and had he been standing up he his jelly-like legs wouldn't have been able to bear his weight. Even if it wasn't true, it was nice to hear those words and for a second be able to pretend they were fact but Gokudera knew himself too well. He knew the darkness that lurked in the depths of broken men's souls more intimately then the Tenth did, having felt the harsh cruelty of reality when he was only a small child. And even though he had painstakingly rebuilt himself from scratch since that day he could never go back to the life of the innocent child he had once been and his soul was in truth nothing more than a twisted sort of mosaic. He had sworn to himself the moment he chose to become the Tenth's subordinate that he would never let the Tenth know that kind of heartbreak. To his dying breath and beyond Gokudera would do anything within his power to protect him.

That was why in the end he couldn't trust himself not to be like his father. The Tenth would never even have to issue an order, as Gokudera knew his kind nature would never have allowed him to do. If a woman in Gokudera's life ever became a problem for the Vongola Famiglia he would silently and efficiently remove her from this world without ever bothering the Tenth with such trivial details. That was the kind of man Gokudera Hayato was growing into, because all that was still good and whole within him belonged to the Tenth, and by extension the Vongola.

"Maybe," he said, hating himself for the lie that slid over his tongue too easily.

Gokudera Hayato was a mafioso.

--

**Author notes:** I'm not sure about this one. Somehow it feels like it isn't my best work… But the next chapter (Yamamoto) will be much better.

By the way, cosa nostra is the real name of the Italian Mafia. As far as I know it roughly means 'our thing' and was used between mafioso, and because there was no need for 'men of honour' to name it, cosa nostra is only capitalised into Cosa Nostra by outsiders.


	2. Yamamoto

**Title:** Vivere nel Peccato**  
Author: **Waruji  
**Status: **2/?**  
Theme:** When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults. -Brian Aldiss  
**Characters: **Yamamoto, Gokudera, Reborn, Tsuna, Yamamoto Sr. **  
Pairings:** Some 80S if you drink a glass of vodka and squint but otherwise gen  
**Word Count:** 8177  
**Rating:** M – for somewhat graphic descriptions of violence.**  
Disclaimer:** I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or any of it's characters and I'm not making any profit out of this.**  
Summary:** The time has come for Yamamoto to finally commit to the Vongola…  
**Author notes:** I had to rewrite this one quite a few times and it kept getting longer and longer but I'm finally satisfied with it.

--

"So, what was it you wanted to talk about?" Yamamoto asked, looking around the fenced grey concrete roof they were standing. With the clear blue sky above them, the view so reminiscent of their middle school days he couldn't help but smile a little as the wind ruffled his hair. Only the absence of Tsuna and lunch was jarringly different from his memories. Of course it was too late in the afternoon for lunch now and there was no food of any kind available, not even one of Bianchi's _'special' _meals – made with a whole lot more love than anyone would ever need.

Reborn, as small as ever, stood with his feet wide apart and his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes as inscrutable and fathomless as the pitch-black water of a winter lake under the rim of his hat. He had not changed at all these past years, even his outfit, an expensive designer-brand suit with a white dress shirt and black tie stayed the same. Scrutinising his face, Yamamoto thought Reborn seemed more serious then usual, wearing the same steely expression as he had when they had trained together in the future. There was an itch between his shoulder blades that told him something wasn't right, that something was different –and not in a pleasant way.

Shifting his focus to Gokudera, who stood positioned a little further away next to Reborn, did nothing to ease the tension. The grumpy, scowling look Gokudera sent him was common enough but there was a strange, underlying hostility that hadn't been there in years. As much as the silver-haired Italian pretended otherwise, they were friends –even when Tsuna wasn't around to play mediator– their arguments were more out of habit then real anger. Of course that was only because Gokudera had made a genuine effort to reciprocate Yamamoto's friendship, even if it was only because he felt it was necessary to become a good right hand man. That was why it was that antagonistic stare that convinced him that this was no ordinary conversation between friends. A fluttery feeling was turning his stomach and he wondered why exactly Gokudera had, apparently on Reborn's orders, asked him to double back to school after they had seen Tsuna home.

"It's time," Reborn said gravely, without even a hint of his usual amusement, "for you to become a true Vongola."

At that, Yamamoto blinked, he had been under the impression that he already was a member of the Vongola family – even if he hadn't been aware of the true meaning of the Vongola Family until about a year and a half ago when they had returned from the future. Shaking of the unpleasant feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, he chuckled a little and decided he was just overreacting. Things had been slow recently and he probably just missed the adrenaline rush that always accompanied the Family. "Sure, little guy," he said, smiling brilliantly as he rubbed the back off his neck idly. "What do I have to do?"

Gokudera glared at him, disgust evident in his eyes, and with a growl that sounded suspiciously like 'baseball moron' he turned his head to the side and took a long, deep drag from his cigarette. Yamamoto startled a bit, Gokudera was somewhat of a chain smoker but he usually didn't smoke like that, inhaling the bitter, toxic smoke deeply into his lungs. Most of the time the cigarette was just there so he would always have something to light his explosives with and, he just took short puffs and kept them lit so he would never be caught off guard. And the silent contempt so clearly visible caused an uneasy chill to run down Yamamoto's spine, for as long as they had known each other, Gokudera had never been shy in voicing his argumentative, and often rude, opinions before. There was no reason why he shouldn't do so now either.

"What's going on, little guy?" Yamamoto said, turning back to the little hitman.

"The Ninth has ordered you to make a hit," Reborn said matter-of-factly.

Struck speechless, Yamamoto could only gap at the small mafioso and wish he could believe this was a joke. Not to long ago, before the Millefiore incident had ripped the veil of ignorance from his eyes, he could have laughed it off as a game, but this wasn't a game at all. "Why?" he finally managed to croak out.

"Because you don't belong to our world," Reborn answered solemnly. "You're just an average person who happened to stumble into the Family. The Ninth believes you are trustworthy, but the rest of the Vongola doesn't share his views."

"Don't you get it, you moron," Gokudera interjected heatedly, slashing out with the hand holding his cigarette in frustration. "You're clean. You can walk away from all of this without any repercussions from the law whatsoever. There's no fucking guarantee you won't go to the police or abandon the Vongola if things get serious."

"I wouldn't do that," Yamamoto protested, a spark of anger lighting in him causing him to step forward, his hand itching for him to take hold of his bat.

"Really?" Gokudera asked doubtingly and tilted his head a little to the side, his features twisting scornfully. "A year and a half ago this was all fun and games to you. Can you really say you're prepared to give up everything? What will you do about baseball, huh?"

His anger faltered and died and he looked away from Gokudera's too-green eyes, he couldn't answer those questions and they all knew it. Yamamoto liked his tight-knit friends and the Vongola, he liked the adrenaline rush that always followed with the various tasks Reborn would set for them but to give up his normal life and his dreams as a baseball pro wasn't easy. From the start he had never had Gokudera's zeal for Mafia life, instead concentrating on baseball and he had spent so many years training and wishing with that single goal in mind, to suddenly let go… he didn't know if he could do that.

"That's enough, Gokudera," Reborn said calmly, staring Yamamoto straight in the eyes. "Don't misunderstand, the Ninth isn't telling you to do this to be cruel. There are still those who dislike Tsuna because they feel he has too much oriental blood and favour other candidates for the position. One of the arguments against him is you, Yamamoto. It's just one small argument but at this point we can't afford to show any weakness. "

"Is it really that bad?" Yamamoto asked, feeling himself slowly but surely being pushed into a corner.

Reborn nodded his head in confirmation. "Normally Tsuna would have given you this order but that Dame-Tsuna hasn't reached the point when he can deal with that yet and we don't have any room for failure," the small hitman said, pulling down his hat to shade his eyes. "Remember that the Varia aren't the only ones willing to break the rules to get rid of those in their way."

"You mean they would do something to Tsuna?" Yamamoto growled out, the sudden surge of rage narrowed his eyes and the tension running through his body filled his limbs with a familiar ache to act instantaneously. Reborn looked strangely pleased at the harshness of his tone and even Gokudera's agitated stance eased up a little. It took Yamamoto a few minutes to force himself to relax even though anger was not a familiar emotion to him as it was to Gokudera. Honestly, most of the time he couldn't understand why people bothered to get angry at every small thing, it was just tiring and a waste of energy most of the time, but even he could be riled into a fury and the thought of anything happening to Tsuna –to _any_ of his friends– made his hands tremble with anger.

Shakily he raised a hand to his forehead, clenching his teeth; it was almost too much to process but it certainly explained his silver-haired friend's foul mood. Gokudera followed Tsuna with the ardent passion of a fanatic; there was nothing more sacred to him then 'the Tenth' and he would not tolerate anything or anyone that might hinder him. _Shit_. Yamamoto dragged his hand from his forehead and ran it through his hair despondently.

"What about the others? Do they also have to–" Yamamoto asked, then pausing as what he had said clicked in his mind and he hastily turned toward Gokudera. "Have you…?"

"Maybe I have, what difference does it make?" Gokudera said impatiently.

Reborn exchanged a quick glance with Gokudera and something passed silently between them that he could not interpret. Whatever it was, it made the hot-tempered bomber back down without protest, deferring to the small hitman who switched his focus back to Japanese teen in front of him.

"Gokudera has already proven himself to the Famiglia," he said in a tone that didn't allow for interruptions. "Hibari has impressed several of the Vongola on more then one occasion and Mukoro has a special arrangement. Lambo is too young to take a test like this but his boss in the Bovino Famiglia has vouched for him on his honour. As the Sun Ryohei's role in the Famiglia is different from yours, and he will face a different challenge from the Ninth to prove himself."

"Why are you telling him all of this?" Gokudera said somewhat sulkily, raising an eyebrow.

""Are you questioning me?" And there was a hard glint in Reborn's eyes that Yamamoto had never really noticed before.

"No, sir," Gokudera said quickly but it was obvious his heart wasn't quite in it.

"Here is the information you need," Reborn continued, unconcerned by Gokudera's tone, holding out a small note and a photo.

"There is only a date, time and address on this," Yamamoto said after casting a brief look at it. "There isn't even a name."

"What would knowing his name change? He's still going to die," Reborn said flatly. "You have all the information you need to find him and kill him and even if you don't, then someone else will."

"And it'll reflect badly on the Tenth," Gokudera added.

"But still," Yamamoto said, his expression serious as he looked back down on the photo. "We're talking about killing someone here. I can't just make up my mind about something like this in a few seconds."

He said that but his thoughts were firmly on the boy that had not only saved his life so dramatically but also given him a new reason to live in the process. Thinking back he could still feel the rush of wind through his hair and the feel of two pairs of skinny arms holding on to him tightly as they fell. It was his first real encounter with the real _Tsuna_ instead of the no-good Tsuna their classmates had always pushed around and bullied until Gokudera had come along. Since then Tsuna had gathered the unlikeliest band of protectors anyone could imagine and held them together like some sort of super-glue. Which was quite an accomplishment considering that killing Mukoro was one of Hibari's fondest dreams. In short, Tsuna was the sort of person that only grew more amazing as the years passed and it might have been a selfish way of thinking but deep inside Yamamoto couldn't help but agree with Gokudera somewhat. There was really no comparison between the weight of Tsuna's life and some random stranger he had never met before.

Only it wasn't that simple. He didn't know if he could ever face his father or Tsuna if they ever discovered what he had done, should he go through with it, he didn't know what he could say to justify it. Tsuna would inevitably blame himself even though it would be Yamamoto who did the deed and he never wanted to cause him that kind of pain. And his gruff, good-natured father wasn't far beyond Tsuna in terms of soft-heartedness for all of his strict harshness when he had passed on Shigure Souen sword style. He wouldn't understand either because this hit would certainly not be the last – that much even Yamamoto understood. How could he justify killing to protect a group of criminals and, as it would inevitably be the case at least some times, just to earn his paycheque?

"If you don't succeed," Reborn said then, the look on his face a strange, uncommon mixture of sympathy and cold determination. "You don't need to come back. The Vongola Famiglia doesn't need failures or cowards."

"What are you saying, little guy?" He asked apprehensively.

A year ago he would have laughed and said that that was harsh punishment, mistaking it for a strange joke. But no one was laughing and Gokudera and Reborn's sober faces left little hope for a prank of any kind. His blood was already turning cold, like it had when he had been convinced he would die in his fight against Squalo and he had finally realised how small and fragile a human life could be. It was the same chill that had made him able to let go of his doubts and hesitations and let the adrenaline rush do his thinking for him. If he was going to be honest, he hadn't thought as much about what the Vongola really was as maybe he should have since he found out. When he was hanging out with Tsuna and Gokudera they were just good friends having a blast and it was easy to ignore the true meaning of the Mafia they all belonged to.

"What he means, you baseball idiot," Gokudera said, interrupting his thoughts. "Is that if you don't go through with this you'll be exiled from the Vongola and if you ever come near us or the Tenth again, we'll kill you."

Gokudera's statement, his crudely put out warning, didn't come as a surprise. The Vongola was no made up children's game, it was an old and powerful Mafia and it had certain expectations of him. He could choose to live up to them and kill the bright-eyed man in the photo, but from that moment on they would own him. He would have no chance at a normal life beyond what they allow him to have and baseball would be little more then a faraway dream within a dream. It wasn't a position he could resign from without also resigning from his right to live. But it also meant he would be helping to strengthen Tsuna's position and chances for survival, and Tsuna was already much too far in to have any hope of ever getting out. And it would let him keep his friends, because baseball, as much as he loved it, couldn't compare to his the people that were important to him.

If he chose not to kill the man, the Vongola would take it as a sign that he was an unreliable coward who wasn't willing to make sacrifices for the sake of the Family and they would turn on him. He would never eat lunch with Tsuna and Gokudera again or just hang out together, and he would never be there to see another one of Lambo and I-pin's silly arguments or hear one of Ryohei's loud exclamations. Even something as simple as waving hello to Haru if he passed her by on the street would be forbidden. And Squalo, the proud, beautiful swordsman of Varia would only talk to him again when he came by to kill him for getting thrown out for something, as he would consider it, so trivial. And that was only assuming no other Vongola had decided Yamamoto knew too much and beat him to the chase.

"I'll do it," he said slowly, his voice even and certain.

The baby assassin just cast him a calm, knowing look. "We'll see."

Then he turned and started walking away, his shoes thumping softly against the concrete, leaving both Yamamoto and Gokudera behind. Making up his mind Yamamoto took a step forward. "Reborn!" he shouted out, for once using the Arcobaleno's real name.

And the hitman looked over his shoulder, waiting wordlessly for whatever he had to say.

"Will this really help Tsuna?" He asked quietly.

At that, Reborn smiled again, knowingly and, if Yamamoto didn't imagine it, proudly. "Make sure you come back."

When the small hitman had left, Gokudera stepped forward, the calculating, apprehensive look in his eyes telling Yamamoto he really would kill him if he had to. He placed a hand on Yamamoto's shoulder, his grip painfully tight. "Do it fast and don't look at the corpse for too long or you'll probably throw up like a moron," he said, his tone almost conversational. "Don't worry about the body, the Vongola have a clean-up crew that will take care of it. Just make sure nobody sees you."

"Anything else?" Yamamoto asked just as much to hear a familiar voice as the Italian mobster's advice. He had made his decision; there was no longer any room to back down and he needed to remember what he was doing this for. There was a heaviness in Gokudera's stare, Yamamoto noted, a peculiar chill that had scared many bullies throughout middle- and high school. For the first time he wondered how much of it had to do with the Mafia.

"Don't expect me to be holding your hand through this," Gokudera snarled, but there was no venom in his voice. "Just don't be a moron and wear your school uniform and remember blood can be a bitch to get out of your clothes so you might as well get rid of them."

"Thanks Gokudera," Yamamoto smiled the too-wide boyish grin he was famous for, grateful for his friends fumbling concern. "I'll be sure to think about that."

"You're such an idiot," Gokudera said exasperatedly and his voice softening somewhat to something that could almost be called affection and the scowled eased out of his features. "But for some reason the Tenth seems to like you so you better not fail, baseball moron. We're counting on you."

Then the Italian teen looked away from him, a shadow ghosting across his face as he took a step away, tensing defensively. "I don't want to have to-" he started saying, his tone low as if he was admitting some intensely shameful secret. "Never mind, just don't be stupid."

And with that Gokudera walked off hurriedly the same way Reborn had went, but halfway toward the door leading to the staircase that would take him back down into the school he turned around. He continued walking, now backward and a little slower with his hands in his pockets. "And moron, don't forget this isn't some stupid contest, you're not there to fight him, you're there to kill him," he said caustically. "You don't have to fight fair and square."

Then he was gone and there wasn't anything else left to do other then to go home and wait for the appointed day. The walk home was slow, his decision weighing heavily on him, and he wished he could turn back the clock to the times when he wasn't responsible for anyone's life other than his own. When he came home he tried to smile and laugh as he always did, just so his father, who was swamped with work as always, wouldn't worry. Sometimes, Yamamoto would catch his father sending troubled looks his way but he ignored it – for once he had a problem he couldn't talk to his father about. He couldn't just tell Yamamoto Senior he was involved in organised crime and expect him to be fine with it. What exactly was he supposed to say? And all of his close friends were involved in the Mafia themselves so they weren't prime material for a heart-to-heart about what he should do.

It was lonely, not having anyone to talk to, and for the first time since he was a little child he felt very alone and vulnerable in a dog-eat-dog world. He spent most of the night lying on top of his bed with his clothes still on; staring at the photo Reborn had given him. A young man a few years older then him smiled out at Yamamoto from the glossy photo with a twinkle in his warm chocolate brown eyes that looked disquietingly like Tsuna's. With his eyes tracing every line of the target's face, noting the typically Asian slant to the eyes and the dark hair styled disturbingly similar to Gokudera's, he couldn't help but wonder what this man had done to get on the Vongola's radar.

Eventually exhaustion took its toll, and his heavy eyelids slid shut. Yamamoto opened his eyes with a start the next morning. Rubbing his aching eyes he realised he must have fallen asleep sometime during the night despite the situation. Tiredly he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "I'm going to kill someone today," he whispered to himself, but the menacing reality of those words didn't make it sound any less like a memorised line out of a movie.

He changed out of his rumpled old t-shirt and jeans into his uniform without much fuss, tossing his old clothes onto his bed, then hesitated before stuffing them into his school bag. After that he had to bend down and stick his arm in under the bed to fish out his bat casing where he had placed Shigure Kintoki the day before as preparation. With a glance at his wristwatch he gratefully realised he was a little bit late. Glad to have found a decent excuse to avoid is father he sprinted out of his room and down the hall past the kitchen when his father stuck his head out.

"Takeshi!" His father yelled after him. "Aren't you going to have breakfast?"

"No thanks, dad," he yelled back while putting on his sneakers. "I have to go now."

Gokudera was already in place, waiting outside the gates of Tsuna's house when Yamamoto arrived, but unlike many times before he wasn't nervously crouching behind one of the walls attempting to keep out of sight of his sister. Now he was leaning far more casually against it, safe in the knowledge that Bianchi had left for a weekend in 'the motherland' as she called it. His eyes were sweeping from right to left to right again in a continuous motion, scanning for potential threats to his beloved 'Tenth'. Not too long ago, Yamamoto would have considered his behaviour paranoid, but considering what they had been through and what was going on it wasn't surprising that Gokudera's vigilance had risen a few notches.

"Yo, Gokudera," Yamamoto greeted the Italian teenager loudly, waving his hand even though he already knew that he had been spotted some time ago and grinned widely.

"Are you going to do it?" Gokudera said bluntly, not even bothering to lower his voice, when he came closer.

"Don't worry about it," Yamamoto replied, more confidently then he felt. He turned his head as he heard a small explosion going off inside of Tsuna's house. Briefly he wondered if it was Lambo or Reborn that was responsible.

"How can I not worry you imbecile!" Gokudera hissed, grabbing hold of Yamamoto's shirt threateningly. "If you screw this up the Tenth will–"

"I won't screw it up!" Yamamoto snarled back, his voice rising and his eyes flashed angrily. "I don't want anything to happen to Tsuna anymore then you do. Just trust me for one second will you."

"How can I when you – " Gokudera began when the slam of a door caused him to close his mouth with a snap and hastily loosen his grip on Yamamoto, his face changing from angry to startled in less then a second.

They both spun around in unison guiltily only to come face to face with Tsuna eyeing them suspiciously. He was still short and scrawny compared to his friends and his face almost a dead ringer for that of the most popular girl in Namimori but the air around him was more mature and a little more sure of himself than it had been when they first met. He was looking at them tiredly, as if he wondered where they got their energy from.

"What are you guys arguing about?" Tsuna's light voice interrupted them.

"Nothing, Tenth," Gokudera insisted quickly. "Yamamoto was just being a bother as usual."

Tsuna didn't look at all convinced, his eyes focusing on where Yamamoto's school uniform had wrinkled from Gokudera's grip and his Italian subordinates guilty stammering, but let it slide. They walked to school as always and aside from Gokudera's unusual talkative mood there was nothing out of the ordinary. Their classes still felt too long and their teachers were as dryly boring as always and the homework too bothersome. The girls still swooned from afar at the sight of Gokudera even though he never gave them the time of day and several girls were still kind enough to give him lunch for some reason. Then as the day went on he became more and more anxious and he would take to drumming his fingers nervously at his desk, constantly sneaking glances at his wristwatch until he saw Gokudera wildly gesturing for him to stop, mouthing _'you're being obvious, baseball idiot, act normal'_ and then pointing toward Tsuna who was idly staring out the window, his head resting on a hand.

When school was over he excused himself from following Tsuna and Gokudera on their way home by saying he was going to get in a little extra practise time before dinner. Gokudera nodded approvingly from behind Tsuna's back at his lie, gesturing that he would take care of 'the Tenth' on his own on their walk. As soon as the two of them were out of sight Yamamoto set off jogging a few steps before he remembered he was supposed to remain as inconspicuous as possible and slowed to a fast walk. Once down town, he looked around, watching for a pace he could change into the clothes he had stuffed into his bag. With a glance at his wristwatch he realised he wouldn't have time to find a bathroom to change in.

In the end he went behind a large green dumpster in a shaded alleyway and quickly wiggled out of his uniform, careful not to let it touch the dirty asphalt. His feet were bare and cold against the rough ground as he pulled up his worn jeans and he brushed them off, one at a time, as he put on his sneakers again. A sudden noise, the thunderous sound of something soft striking metal, made him freeze, his hands already in the white t-shirt he hadn't yet had time to pull over his head. His heart was pounding frantically before he remembered that even if it would be embarrassing to be caught changing behind a dumpster of all places it wasn't like they had caught him red-handed. When he turned his head he saw that a large cat with startling yellow eyes as pale as the moon and a glossy charcoal coat standing on the closed hatch of the dumpster staring down at him intently with it's ear pricked forward.

"Don't scare me like that, Neko-san," he said, a relieved smile lighting up his face as he finally pulled the t-shirt over his head.

The cat meowed at him and jumped down elegantly to the ground and approached him with its tail high in the air, encouraged by his warm tone. As it pressed itself against him, walking in narrow little circles around his legs, Yamamoto crouched down causing the animal to pause meowing again as he reached out a hand to scratch it behind its ears. It turned its head, rubbing against his hand with its eyes closed as cats tended to do when scent-marking. It didn't have a collar but it looked too well-kept to be a stray.

"Am I a part of your territory now?" He asked chuckling and the cat's rough little pink tongue shot out to lick his outstretched hand. "Or maybe you like the taste of Dad's sushi?"

When he realised he would have to leave first, he stepped back grabbing the casing holding the shinai his father had given him, hesitating for a moment if he should take his schoolbag or leave it in the alley. It would probably get in his way when it came down to the hit, but if he left it chances were high it would be gone before he could get back. In the end he grabbed it along with his bat casing, figuring he could always drop it during the fight if he had to.

Yamamoto left the alleyway wearing his worn jeans and white t-shirt with a large dark print in front, his shinai, still in its casing, slung over a shoulder and his school bag in his hand. Strangely enough he felt much more relaxed, there was just a quiet buzz of excitement running through his body - it almost felt like he was off toward an important baseball game. Glancing at his reflection in a passing shop window he decided he looked normal, perhaps the small smile curling his lips was more expectant then horrified and his eyes to sharp and focused but at least he didn't look guilty. Certainly the people rushing here and there on the street didn't appear to take notice of him. Namimori wasn't particularly big and it only took him half an hour to get far away enough from the heavily trafficked inner part of town to the worse part of it which didn't look very different then the worn grey block of flats that Gokudera lived in.

It was filthy, with the broken glass of several differently coloured bottles littering the streets along with other junk and graffiti tags sprayed liberally on most buildings. With ten minutes to spare he made it to the street address given to him from Reborn and settled down in one of the dark alleyways to wait. When another five minutes had passed, he took his shinai out of its casing, putting both bags down by his feet. It shocked him when he noticed he had broken out in a cold sweat and his hands were shaking. He had fought many times before, with worse odds, and it had never happened before. Perhaps it was because this was the first time he had searched out a man with the express intention of killing him in cold blood. But the rush of euphoria that came as he swung his shinai in a smooth, elegant motion and it flashed into the far more lethal form of a katana contradicted what his shaking hands and cold sweat told him.

Leaning forward Yamamoto saw the target had finally rounded a corner and come into view, his heart was beating at an uneven pace – from fear or exhilaration he wasn't sure and at the moment it didn't matter. His fingers squeezed the hilt familiarly as he waited for the right time surreptitiously scanning the area for potential witnesses. He slowly counted to three in his head, letting the target come a little closer. He could follow Gokudera's advice and fight dirty, ambushing the man as he walked past. If the man didn't notice him it would be over quickly and even if he turned out to be really strong the first strike was important. But he didn't like it, sneaking around alleyways and jumping a guy who wasn't even holding a weapon. There was no thrill in that, and it felt unfair.

'_Sorry, Gokudera,'_ he thought, _'but I think I'll do this my way.'_

With his sword in both hands he stepped forward from the ally, placing himself in his targets direct line of sight. The reaction from his target was instantaneous, he drew a dark gun from underneath his dark brown leather jacket and dove behind the nearest obstacle, which happened to be an old beat-up truck, and crouched down. Yamamoto's eyes widened as he narrowly avoided the first bullets that flew at him and ducked back into the alley, feeling a sharp pain scrape his arm.

"Who are you?" His target yelled frantically, his voice high with panic. "Are you 'Ndrangheta? Camorra?"

"Neither," He called back after a few seconds, sitting with his back against the brick wall of a house. "I'm Vongola."

A pulsating, stinging pain was growing in his right arm. A brief look told him that the sleeve of his t-shirt had been torn and a long gash confirmed his suspicions. A bullet had grazed him when the target opened fire, he had been shot. _Shit_, he'd been shot. He closed his eyes briefly, grinding his teeth, as he with trembling fingers tried to feel how deep the wound was. Yamamoto almost sighed with relief when he realised it was just a small flesh wound, it would leave a white, shiny scar to decorate his arm but it wouldn't cause any permanent damage. His eyes flashed open when he felt the cold tip of a gun pressing into his right temple. With a gulp he suddenly knew closing his eyes and letting his mind wander, even if it had only been for a short while, had been a fatal mistake.

He waited nervously for target-turned-killer to squeeze the trigger but instead the man circled around so they were face to face, Yamamoto still crouching on the ground and his intended prey standing up, gun still trained at his head.

"Why do the Vongola want me dead?" The target asked, a little more calmly then before even though the perspiration was trickling down his face and his eyes flickered constantly, as if he expected another enemy to jump out at him.

It was a minute long silent standstill as Yamamoto stared down the barrel of a gun, uncertain on what he should do. Then the target, whose eyes no longer bore any resemblance to the kind and gentle Tsuna, hit him with the gun straight to the face, causing Yamamoto's head to reel back and slam against the brick wall.

"I asked you a question!" He said, anger and fear mixing into his voice.

"I don't know!" Yamamoto said quickly, his vision spinning while he closed his hand around Shigure Kintoki's hilt as he noticed the man was too distraught to think of removing his weapon. "They didn't tell me."

"Didn't tell you?" The man echoed. "They didn't even bother telling you?"

"Tell me, what fucking right do you have to kill me?" The target continued desperately, his face scrunching up painfully. "I never had a choice; they were threatening to kill my sister. I couldn't just let that happen. I didn't mean to- I didn't want to-"

The moment the man's voice started to break off, and he turned the barrel of his gun toward another direction as he was gesturing, Yamamoto's sword flashed upward, knocking the gun out of the target's hand. It flew in a high arch to fall down with a clatter several meters away. Both reacting on instinct, the man threw himself after his weapon just as Yamamoto leaped forward, launching into a shaky Shajiku no Ame.

The katana entered the man slightly sideways into the chest, sliding through flesh like a hot knife through butter and blood was pouring out, staining both of their clothes dark red. The man grabbed at Yamamoto's shirt, blood gurgling out of his mouth. His eyes were so brown as they stared at him, the whites visible all around the iris and his pupils like pinpricks. _'So brown,'_ he thought dazed, _'just like Tsuna's.'_ For a single second, those eyes made him hesitate, remembering the man's words: _"What fucking right do you have to kill me?"_ Then a sudden crash diverted his attention from his target and he twisted his head around to see – checking for a possible witness. However, it was only the black cat Yamamoto had seen earlier watching them with curious pale eyes. It must have followed him.

When he turned back to the man slowly bleeding to death with Yamamoto's katana still plunged deeply into his chest he saw a small butterfly knife slashing weakly against his face. With a hissing intake of breath, Yamamoto felt the knife slice up across his chin toward his month and quickly leaned backward. The man's arm fell back against his side, too weak to even lift the knife anymore, and in the rush of adrenaline that had accompanied the last, if somewhat feeble, attack made him twist the katana so that the edge faced the sky and push it upward. And the sword slid up easily, cutting through internal organs, muscle and even the ribcage on its path with a sickening wet crunching sound before it got stuck for a millisecond on the collar bone. With a final tug the sword flew free, dragging a splatter of blood along it that fell back on Yamamoto, staining his face and clothes even more. Yamamoto stared as the body fell, seemingly in slow-motion, toward the pavement dimly aware that he had almost cut the man cleanly in two. Watching his target's organs spilling out of the body along with an unbelievable amount of dark red blood in the space between the halves of the upper body he suddenly felt sick.

He couldn't fully believe what he had just done and as the adrenaline ebbed out of him he gagged, barely able to keep himself from throwing up. Yamamoto stumbled forward towards the bat casing with his left hand over his mouth and the right dragging Shigure Kintoki across the asphalt toward his discarded school bag, avoiding looking at the corpse as much as he could. Staring down at his shirt, now more red then white in the front, he realised he couldn't leave the ally like that. Stripping down as quickly as he could he put his school uniform back on, wishing he had brought another outfit to change into as he remembered Gokudera's warning. Then he used the back of his ruined t-shirt, which was still quite clean, to wipe off his face and removing the blood from Shigure Kintoki's blade and hilt before changing the katana back into a shinai and stuffing it into the bat casing and slinging it over his shoulder.

He was acting mostly on instinct when he grabbed the rest of his things and made a quick sweep with his eyes to make sure he hadn't left anything behind. Then his right foot inched backward on it's own, away from the scene, and before long he had turned and begun to walk away, far more casually then he felt. He didn't remember much of his journey home until he stood at the steps to his house. Sliding the door open he stepped inside.

"Tadaima," he said, kicking his shoes off.

"Okaeri," his father replied grinning widely. Then his face changed from welcoming to puzzled. "Why are you still wearing your uniform, Takeshi? I thought you stayed late to practise."

"What?" Yamamoto said momentarily confused, then rubbed the back off his head smiling. "I guess I practised too hard, they tore and I had to throw them away."

"And what happened to your face?" his father asked, a worried tone creeping into his voice.

"I was a little careless and got hit by a baseball right in the face," Yamamoto laughed. "I must have cut myself on a piece of scrap metal when I fell."

"We should take care of that straight away, son," his father insisted.

"I'll do it myself," Yamamoto replied.

Then he hurried into his room before his father could ask any more uncomfortable questions. As long as he could remember the feeling of safety he always connected with home had been deeply ingrained in his bones. It was supposed to be a safe-haven from the world, only it wasn't anymore he realised as he sank down in his room, leaning against the wall closest to the bed. It was just a place like any other now that he had a new secret he could never afford to let his father know. His father who would be so disappointed if he found out what his son had done with the Shigure Souen style he placed so much pride in. But then again, his father had repeatedly told him that Shigure Souen was a sword of murder. In a way Yamamoto was following the true Shigure Souen style more truly then his father, who always smiled so widely, did.

It had been easier then he had imagined it would be; his target had had no fighting skills to speak off. The only reason Yamamoto had been wounded at all was because he had been careless. He didn't know why, but somehow he had expected his opponent to come at him with a sword but the man had not been a swords master at all, and if his wild shooting was any indication he was no marksman either. But Yamamoto hadn't even taken the possibility that he might have a gun into consideration in the first place. He had just tried to begin his assassination as fairly and justly as he could instead of choosing the most efficient way, figuring it was the least he could do for his target. Then he had underestimated his opponent twice, allowing him to sneak up on him and then not realising the man had another weapon on him. Squalo would probably be pissed if he knew how shabbily Yamamoto had done his first kill.

Yamamoto wondered what it said about himself that he hadn't even attempted to ask Reborn why his target had to die. Two rapid taps, his father's signature knock, startled him out of his thoughts and he quickly pushed his bag and bat casing under the bed just in time has his father stepped in, his sushi knife still clasped in his right hand.

"Takeshi," his father said, uncommonly serious, "is something wrong?"

"It's nothing," Yamamoto said, grinning and waving his hand dismissively. "I'm just struggling a little with baseball lately."

His father sighed and lifted his hand to massage the bridge of his nose, a nervous habit he could never seem to get rid off. "Takeshi, I know I'm just a gruff old man to you, but I'm not blind enough not to see when my boy is in pain and I'm guessing it has nothing to do with baseball."

"It's nothing," he insisted quietly. "It's just something I need to handle on my own."

"Alright, I won't push you if you don't want to say anything" his father said, his eyes sad. "But if you ever decide you want to talk, you come find me."

"I will," Yamamoto replied, knowing he would never take his father up on that offer. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. Yamamoto Tsuyoshi was not a part of the Vongola and as such considered an outsider, there were invisible limits between them now that dictated exactly how much Yamamoto could tell his father.

He didn't care that his lie had been seen through, Yamamoto senior didn't have any reason to think his son had done anything wrong and eventually he would shrug it off as some teenage troubles a son just didn't want to share with his father. As long as he didn't know, they were both safe. But things would never be the same again because there was now a gap between them he wasn't sure they could bridge. Just as his father began to close the door to his room behind him, Yamamoto opened his mouth again.

"Hey, Dad!" He called out, ignoring the small tremble in his voice.

"Yes?" His father said, looking back.

"Shigure Souen is the best style, right? The strongest?" Yamamoto asked; his characteristic large grin plastered on his face like a clown's painted mask.

His father shone up proudly with a carefree grin, the same grin that Yamamoto had smiled so often and made so many people comment on how alike they were. "Of course!"

When his father closed the door, Yamamoto's grin faded into a neutral look and he listened as his childhood's idol walked away, his feet soft and silent against the wooden floor. When he could no longer hear him, Yamamoto stood up and walked over to his desk, taking out a small first aid kit from one of the drawers. He usually kept it for baseball-related accidents but it would suffice for the small injuries he had acquired during his hit, too. He pulled off his uniform west and dress shirt, sighing as he saw that blood had seeped through the shirt sleeve and hoped his father hadn't noticed. He disinfected the long, shallow wound created by the bullet that had nudged him and bandaged it.

Moving over to the mirror, he saw he would have a huge bruise and black-eye on his face and it was already swelling up. The cut on his chin wasn't as bad as he had thought and he hadn't considered it very serious from the start. But Yamamoto was still grateful that he wouldn't have to go to school the next day, maybe Reborn had placed the hit right before a weekend intentionally. Still, the injuries wouldn't heal nearly enough before it was time for school again and Tsuna was scarily perceptive when someone was lying to him. Frustration made him run a hand through his short black hair. _'Like my father's,'_ he thought, _'but our eyes aren't anything alike anymore.'_

The Shigure Souen style was the best. The strongest. The minute he had looked at his father and seen his carefree, boyish grin as he answered ('Of course!') Yamamoto had known his father hadn't known the true meaning behind Shigure Souen as profoundly as he seemed to believe. Yamamoto Tsuyoshi might have raised his sword in a fight some time in his life, but he had never walked the path of murder that the style demanded. His father was no natural born hitman.

Yamamoto grinned at his reflection, and even though it was just as wide and shining as before the perceptive eye would see it as nothing but an empty barring off teeth under hollow eyes. He just didn't feel particularly cheerful, but given time he thought he could probably recover his care-free grin – even if it would never be quite like his father's again. This was the choice he had made and he wouldn't let it pull him down for his own sake as much as his friends'. Startled, Yamamoto realised he was already rebuilding himself, already moving past what he had done.

When school came around again, his black-eye was still an ugly bruise but the swelling had almost disappeared and everyone seemed to accept his story that he had been hit by a stray baseball and fallen and cut himself on a sharp piece of metal. Tsuna had thankfully enough been kept too busy by Reborn to ask any questions.

"How about we eat lunch on the roof," Yamamoto suggested, his smile not as fake as it had been only a few days ago. "You know, for old time's sake."

Tsuna had brightened at that, and eagerly went on ahead off them to buy bread in the cafeteria while Gokudera and he made their way to the roof. As they were climbing the stairs Gokudera suddenly turned around toward him. "I can't believe you got hurt by a weakling like that," was the first thing he said.

"I was a little careless," Yamamoto replied. "I haven't heard anything about it in the news."

"You won't for at least for the next few months either," Gokudera said confidently. "The Vongola clean-up crew is very efficient. By the time anyone finds the body there won't be enough left to identify him by," he paused, and then added: "Even if they get all the parts. His dental records have disappeared you know."

"How mysterious," Yamamoto said and the Italian mobster smiled briefly.

"That's going to scar," Gokudera said, pointing at the cut on his chin.

"Really?" Yamamoto asked, futilely tilting his head in an attempt to stare down at his own chin.

"Just use a mirror, moron," the Italian teen snapped at him. "You know, your future self had a scar in the same place."

"He did, did he?" Yamamoto said slowly, his mood sobering. Then he smiled. "I think it's good for me, makes me look more distinct right?"

The exasperated look on Gokudera's face made him laugh out loud.

"It'll remind me no good comes from hesitating," he added then, so that his friend wouldn't misunderstand and get offended.

"We just do what we have to do," Gokudera said and Yamamoto nodded agreeing.

He was a natural born hitman after all, he could adapt.

He could do this.

--

**Author notes:** According to wikipedia the 'Ndrangheta is _"one of the most powerful and violent organised crime organisations in Italy." _and the Camorra is _"a mafia-like organisation, or secret society, in the region of Campania and the city of Naples in Italy."_ They should not to be confused with the Sicilian Cosa Nostra who work independently from them, even if the 'Ndrangheta and Cosa Nostra are often lumped together because of the geographical closeness.

Of course, since Reborn came from Sicily when he received orders to train Tsuna, I assume he's from the Cosa Nostra, which is the most famous of the Italian mafias.

I wish I could have squeezed in more 80S then I did, but the story didn't let me.


	3. Squalo

**Title:** Vivere nel Peccato**  
Author: **Waruji  
**Fandom: **Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

**Status**: 3/?**  
Theme:** When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults. -Brian Aldiss  
**Characters: **Squalo, Yamamoto, and Yamamoto Senior

**Pairings:** Some implied 80S

**Word Count:** 5537  
**Rating:** T**  
Disclaimer:** I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or any of its characters and I'm not making any profit out of this.**  
Summary:** Squalo pays Yamamoto a visit after his first hit.

**Author notes:** So Squalo's chapter is finally finished, I'm not really sure who is going to star in the next chapter yet though.

----------

He stood outside the small, traditional sushi shop, wondering idly if he was going of the deep end. He didn't need another reminder of his defeat to this amateur in swordsmanship, even if he did have a remarkable talent. What was this need to speak with the one who wore he title that should have been his all along? He clenched his right fist, a flesh and blood mimicry of the eternally closed artificial left hand, and wished he had brought his sword but because it would attract too much attention he had left it behind in his hotel room. He stood out enough already simply by his status as a tall foreigner with long, white hair and an unpleasant smile that never reached his eyes.

Among these throngs of short, dark haired Japanese he couldn't have hid even if he wanted to but there was no reason to go out of his way to attract attention. Squalo had even switched out of his customary leather uniform to a loose-fitting black t-shirt and a pair of entirely too casual blue jeans; he had found himself wishing for the familiar heavy weight of dark leather hours ago when he first put these on. After years of nothing but the Varia uniform and the occasional piece of formal wear the outfit was uncomfortable. The aggression in his eyes and the sharpness of his smile aside, he felt too much like a wolf in sheep's clothing and it unnerved him because he had never been one to pretend to be anything other than what he was.

Shaking of his concerns, he pushed the sliding door open and stalked through the opening. His eyes sweeping over the crowded room, filled with men of various social status all talking amiably over the food and sake on the tables, until their line of sight landed on a smiling man working magic with his knife on a dead fish on the counter before him. The man handled the knife like it was an extension of his arm and despite the easy and relaxed fashion he used it Squalo could tell he could easily turn the tool into a dangerous weapon with an expertise few sushi chefs should have. It was easy enough to spot in the way he held the handle, the way he sliced, and it was familiar enough that Squalo would have recognised him as Yamamoto Takeshi's father and teacher even if he hadn't already been aware of it. For a moment, Squalo's insides curdled with dark, festering hatred as he recognized the middle-aged chef as someone of the opposite end of the spectrum of him; there should be no place in the world for skilled, innocent fools that clung like poison ivy to the ideal of a perfect, pristine world that only existed in their minds. He moved his shoulders, forcing them to relax and let the anger subside but it was already too late.

Yamamoto's father had frozen instantly, the murderous aura rolling off Squalo in waves had interrupted his calm and precise slicing and he looked up with a face that although hard and uncompromisingly determined held no trace of a true born killer. But there was still an impressive determination when the old man locked eyes with him and Squalo wondered if he should revise his earlier opinion. Even an innocent fool could be dangerous depending on the situation he thought, thinking back to the doe-eyed brat that had fought Xanxus and lived through the ordeal. It was almost a shame he was such a nice brat; he could have had a lot of potential. Perhaps the Arcobaleno would iron out the last vestiges of naivety in him, if they wanted Sawada to survive in the Mafia world it was inevitable.

Soft men never lasted long but the runt hadn't seemed to realise that he wouldn't have to be another Xanxus or Byakuran in order to be a Mafia leader. The difference between a being hard man and being a ruthless or cruel man were miles apart.

"Welcome," Tsuyoshi said, his face and tone carefully neutral but without an ounce of sincerity. His gaze followed Squalo as he walked forward, taking note of the warrior's grace in his step. The silver-haired assassin sank casually down on one of the free chairs in front of the counter and grabbed hold of one of the menu's lying in a neat pile close by encased in thin plastic as if he were an average customer.

Squalo barely looked at the menu; it was composed of row after row of strange little symbols that were of little value to him. Even if he had learned to read Japanese as well as speak it in his youth he had never bothered to hold on to the knowledge and over the years, as his use of it had become nonexistent, his grasp on the various markings had slipped. Asia had not been his playground most of the time and beyond the spoken Japanese that all of the Vongola were required to know –a tradition stemming out of respect for the First Boss– he had had little, if any, use of the language at all. However, even if he had been able to make sense of the writings it wouldn't have mattered much anyway; Japanese culture and culinary appreciation were foreign to him and so the items listed were all the same to him anyway. But dark brown, slanted eyes, like so many others he had become accustomed to seeing in this country, were watching him with a silent intensity that made his skin itch. He forced himself to relax enough that he wouldn't start twitching uncomfortably in his chair.

"Vooii, old man," Squalo said, and even though his voice was loud it was noticeable more quiet then normally, it was as close he would ever come to talking normally. "Recommend something."

The apprehension on Yamato Tsuyoshi's face was quickly hidden behind a veneer of professional courtesy and deeply instilled politeness, choosing to ignore his customer's rudeness, as he began to list a number of choices that Squalo didn't even bother to listen to. Instead he watched Yamamoto's father and wondered why this man didn't awaken his killer instinct the way every other swordsman in his path always had. Squalo knew he could kill this man, this man made soft by a life lived in peace and comfort, without much effort –even without his sword strapped to his arm– but that had never stopped him before and somewhere beneath that softness there was quite a bit of potential. Whether they were strong or weak, he always felt an urge to cross swords with them, almost as if he was searching for something undefinable, and he rarely left any alive in his path. So why not with this man? There was something deeply soothing in the sharp clean slices a blade created but a snapped neck wasn't bad for relieving tension either, there was no reason why he shouldn't feel an inclination to end the life before him.

"I'll take the last one," he drawled out and watched Yamamoto's father work from behind half-lidded eyes and smiled at the fearlessness in the old man's features and posture. So, this man really was the rain guardian's father after all.

The dish that was presented in front of him was breath-taking in its intricate beauty but Squalo had little understanding or appreciation for the culinary arts, not even those that were said to take ten years to master, and he had never cared much for fish to begin with. He stared at his meal unenthusiastically, picking at it with those bothersome little sticks Asian people seemed to insist eating with in one hand and resting his cheek against his closed left hand, the elbow sitting disrespectfully sitting on the counter.

"You're not from around here," Tsuyoshi observed with a hint of irritation, watching as the foreigner tried, and failed, to make some sort of abstract sculpture out of the sushi. "And you're obviously not here for my sushi. What exactly is it that you want?"

"Straight to the point, huh?" Squalo snorted, letting the chopsticks fall down on the counter as he lounged back in his chair in a state of apparent relaxation. After a brief pause, debating whether he should bother lying or not, he leaned forward again. "You could say I'm an acquaintance of you son."

"Takeshi?" Tsuyoshi said startled, surprise breaking through his professional mask. Then a thin-lipped composure settled across his features again. "You look too old to be one of his friends."

"Who said I was a friend?" He replied lazily, just to be contrary. "But really old man, don't you have any proper utensils here? I can't eat with these sticks."

"This is a sushi shop," the dark-haired man said, the look in his eyes turning that familiar blend of frigidity and condescension that Squalo normally received in this country for being a rude 'gajin'. It was amazing how little it took to offend them. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here."

"It's none of your business," he said casually, "but I have a few things to discuss with your son."

At that the old man remained silent for a while, his eyes growing distant as he evaluated the foreigner in front of him; one swordsman to another. His gaze took in Squalo's lean muscled build that could only have come from many years of hard, back-breaking training, the self-assured way he held himself like a languid predator reclining on the chair and lingered on the left hand covered by a dark leather glove unlike the bare right. There was a peculiar heaviness in that gaze that said that Yamamoto senior knew a little bit more then he should.

"My son has behaving strangely lately," he said finally, as if he was uncertain if he should mention this to someone who had walked in his restaurant not even as much as an hour ago; but there was recognition in his eyes. A true swordsman would always recognise his like, and even prey, if it had any sense, should recognise a carnivore. "You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

"Me?" Squalo drawled in mock surprise and wondered if he should stop ridiculing the man before he came too close to the truth. "No, I didn't do anything to the brat."

"But you know," Tsuyoshi said; an unshakable certainty born out of intuition settling into his expression.

"Look," Squalo said, no longer smiling, "don't pry into this for both your sakes. It isn't worth it."

"Do you have any children, young man?" Tsuyoshi said suddenly, the fine lines in his face to deepening tiredly.

"No," Squalo snorted, feeling a faint shiver run up his spine at the very idea. "I could never stand children. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Then you wouldn't understand," he said and looked very tired and very old all of a sudden in a way Squalo's own father never had. That bastard would never have stared down at his hands softly, concern for his only son taking his mind far away like Yamamoto senior, who looked for all the world like he was no longer in the popular little sushi shop. "A parent will always worry about their child; that's just how it is."

"Spare me the sentimental drivel," Squalo sneered. "There are a lot of assholes out there who would screw their sons over a thousand times over just for kicks. He might be your 'little boy' but if you stick your nose where it doesn't belong it might get cut off."

"Maybe it will," Tsuyoshi said quietly, the light in his eyes dimming with something that came too damn close to sympathy for Squalo's taste. The old man was making assumptions he had no right to be making. "But he's still my precious–"

"Squalo! What are you doing here?" A surprised voice exclaimed and they both turned to face the broadly grinning Yamamoto junior standing in the doorway.

"Did you have a good day at school today, Takeshi," his father asked smiling with genuine fondness at his son, as if his conversation with Squalo had never taken place.

"It was fine," Yamamoto replied; sliding his bag off his shoulder when he reached the counter and letting it slide down with a soft thump. Then he shifted his eyes toward Squalo. "I never thought I'd see you here."

"You know this young man then, Takeshi?" Tsuyoshi asked.

"Yeah, this is Superbi Squalo, "Yamamoto said easily. "He was my opponent in that contest I was in four years ago."

At that, Tsuyoshi's face looked startled then a knowing look Squalo didn't like settled across his features. "Was he now?" the old man said slowly; considering.

"Yeah," Yamamoto said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was actually Squalo who made me interested in learning kendo in the first place."

"Superbi Squalo," Yamamoto's father said thoughtfully. "That's an unusual name."

"It's Italian," Yamamoto offered cheerily before Squalo had the chance sneer rudely. "But we won't occupy you time anymore dad. I'm sure Squalo has some things he wants to talk to me about right away."

And with that the rain guardian grabbed a hold of Squalo's arm and practically dragged him up out of his chair and out of the room, into a small hallway before he released his grip. Squalo hadn't seen him for a little bit over a year but he hadn't changed much. He was a bit taller, his shoulders a tad bit broader and his features were a little sharper then Squalo remembered (was that a scar on his chin?), and his smile, his smile was a little off. It wasn't something Squalo could quite put his finger on, he didn't know the brat well enough for that, but something had changed. He could guess the reason why without much difficulty but what direction had it taken the boy?

Yamamoto looked uncharacteristically tongue-tied, his eyes flickering from Squalo to the doorway they had just passed and then back again repetitiously, fidgeting with his clothes. "We should probably talk in my room," he said after a while, sounding very much like he had intended to say something else entirely.

The rain guardian's room was depressingly average. There was a single, unmade bed with blue sheets, a desk with a closed laptop and various mementos strewn across the room in a homely, uneven fashion. Squalo crossed the room in even strides to reach the shelf on attached to the wall just above the head of Yamamoto's bed containing a row of books. He tilted his head to read the few titles that were legible and not Japanese chicken scratches. Too many of them were about baseball.

He shot an incredulous look back ay Yamamoto. "Do you actually read this crap?"

Yamamoto frowned. "It isn't crap."

"I heard you had made your choice," Squalo replied. "So what's with the library?"

"I did," Yamamoto said and sighed. "But I can still dream, even if it will never happen. Haven't you ever wanted to do something other than this?"

Squalo stayed silent at that and shrugged. "If I ever did I don't remember. It doesn't matter anyway; I never had the luxury of choice like you did."

Yamamoto looked up at him. "You didn't?" He asked, as if the possibility had never struck him.

"Nah," the assassin replied. "My family has been mafioso for generations. My old man would have cut me up good if I ever disgraced them by leaving."

"Your own-," the dark-haired teen began, a worried crinkle forming between his eyebrows, then he stopped. "That's a really personal question."

But he didn't apologise and his eyes turned away and Squalo could tell by the thinning of his lips into a harsh line he was comparing what little he knew of Squalo's asswipe of a father with his own.

Unceremoniously Squalo sat down on Yamamoto's bed, a small popping sound coming from his neck as he rolled his head from side to side before looking back at the rain guardian. "It doesn't matter. My father was a scumbag who didn't know how to think for himself. End of story," he said, then smiled. "I hear you've finally become one of us."

The boy looked down on his feet despondently. "Yeah, you could say that."

Squalo could almost slap himself in the face as he realised he had touched upon a sore issue. Already regretting what he was about to say, he ground out the words between closed teeth, wondering why the hell he had to play shrink to the kid who beat him. "And somehow, that's a bad thing?"

The rain guardian was quiet for a moment. "It's not that I don't want to help Tsuna," he paused. "I – I just don't think I'll ever forget his face when I killed him," he said looking away from Squalo as if he was ashamed to admit it.

'_Ah,'_ Squalo thought. _'First kill anxieties.'_

"You will," he said bluntly. "In this line of work the faces pile up too quickly. It won't take long until he's a just a blur in your memory."

"How can you be so sure?" Yamamoto asked.

"VOOOII, you bastard," Squalo spat out loud enough that the boy jumped." Learn to listen to the voice of experience for once. This isn't just a one time thing; you're going to be killing a lot of people for the Vongola from now on. Once you get used to it it'll become just like any other job."

"Maybe you're right," the Japanese teen replied and sat down on the edge of his bed dejectedly next to the Varia assassin. "Maybe that's what I'm afraid of."

Squalo raised an eyebrow questioningly.

The rain guardian laughed nervously and ran a hand through his hair. "What if I keep killing until I forget that it's wrong? What if I just keep killing and killing and killing and it never stops? What will I be then?"

"A hitman?" Squalo drawled. "It's what we do. It's what you do. You have to remember this is the life _you_ chose, kid. No one forced that sword into your hands."

And then Yamamoto laughed again, for real this time, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I guess that's true."

Squalo rolled his eyes and wondered who it was, exactly, that had had the ever so brilliant idea to bring an idiot like Yamamoto into the mafia. Honestly there were enough morons running around in the Vongola without adding to them. Staring at the boy in front of him he suddenly realised that this was an idiot he would be stuck with for the rest of his life. Seeing as they would be the only swords masters in the Vongola, both shared the rain attribute and whose primary functions would be to serve as assassins –although Yamamoto would have the added glory of being the runt's bodyguard– it was likely Squalo would never be free of him.

'_At least he'll be better then his royal pain in the ass,'_ he thought sourly as he remembered Belphegor's various quirks and random stunts.

"How did you lose your hand?" Yamamoto asked curiously, changing the subject quickly as he saw the storm growing on the white-haired assassins face.

Squalo looked down at the glove covering his artificial limb considering; not many people had ever dared to ask him that. "I cut it off," he replied, for once choosing simple honesty over a snarky comeback.

The rain guardian's eyes widened dramatically and his body froze in momentary surprise. "You cut it off," he echoed.

"There was a man I admired who only had one hand," Squalo began. "I wanted to see if I could be as strong as him."

"You really liked him?" Yamamoto asked smiling softly, probably thinking back to some childhood baseball idol of his or something similar, but it was strangely forlorn.

Squalo's mouth twisted into a scornfully lopsided smile and wondered if he should bother with the truth. He could remember every blow exchanged between them, every technique utilised but the sword emperor's face was long gone in the mist of time. His insides twisted bitterly and he wished he recalled more then a fuzzy outline of a tall, dark-haired man. He had almost considered telling Yamamoto it wasn't the faces that you remembered that haunted you, but the faces that slipped away. "I respected him," he settled on.

Then Yamamoto's eyes changed, they become sharper and clearer – just like when they fought each other in the battle over the Vongola Rings and Squalo had been on the verge of dismissing the boy completely. _'Of all the times he chooses to be perceptive,'_ Squalo thought with a disgusted grimace. But the rain guardian didn't say anything, just looked at him with those clear, concerned eyes.

Finally, it was Squalo who broke the silence as he stood up and walked away from the bed. "Look, this isn't something I want to talk about. You wouldn't understand anyway, it's a lesson only experience can bring and believe me kid," the smirk slipped of his face, "experience is a hard teacher."

"Alright," Yamamoto said, and then his eyes flickered as if he thought of something. "Why are you here?"

Squalo held out a worn baseball and lobbed it lazily at the teens head, almost regretting he hadn't thrown it full-force but soon as the thought crossed his mind he realised that the rain guardian would have caught it as easily as he did the lobbed ball. At first Yamamoto looked nonplussed but as he saw the untidy scribbled name on its side his eyes widened disbelievingly.

"How did you get this?" He breathed, pure awe in his voice and he touched the ball almost reverently.

Squalo snorted. "I picked it up on after a job in the states. Think of it as a first kill present, or souvenir if you prefer that. I had just heard about your hit and the stadium was right there so I figured why not. If I'd known what a bore it would be I wouldn't have bothered."

A sudden tension appeared in the rain guardian's shoulders and he stared down at the baseball almost longingly. He only hesitated for a moment before he spoke. "Ever since our fight I haven't been as into baseball as I was before. I don't know why but it isn't as exiting to play anymore."

"Maybe," Squalo drawled, smirking nastily, "it's because you've found something better."

"Better?" Yamamoto said in a strangely high-pitched voice with wide eyes. It was almost as if he was nervous about something.

Squalo looked at him strangely. "I'm saying you like mafioso life more than you think."

The Japanese teen relaxed somewhat. "So that's what you meant."

"So that's what you meant," Squalo echoed with a raised eyebrow. "What else could I have been talking about?"

"Nothing," Yamamoto said quickly.

Too quickly, Squalo's eyes narrowed with suspicion but he decided he didn't want to know whatever it was that was going through the brats head at the moment. "You're a killer, slugger," he said instead.

"I don't like killing," Yamamoto protested, his voice strained. "I just like the fight. I like testing my abilities and my limits. It's a contest with a worthy opponent that makes my blood boil. The killing is secondary."

"If you say so," the Italian mobster said casually, the tone of his voice as close to pitying as Squalo could come. "But I wonder how long you can hold to that."

"What do you mean?"

"This kind of life," Squalo said, making a small sweeping gesture with his arm. "It does strange things to your head, unless you're already off in cuckoo land like Bel."

He shifted his weight and crossed his arms over his chest. "Personally, it's all about the kill for me," he said seriously. "Unless you kill your opponent you can't really say you've won."

"Then why didn't you kill Genkishi when you had the chance? The future you, I mean," Yamamoto asked, his voice shaking with uncertainty even though his face tightened in stone-cold anger as the name passed over his lips. "Wasn't it because you didn't want to kick someone who was already down?"

"Voooiiiiii," Squalo snarled, turning sharply around to face the Japanese teen. "What kind of weakling do you fucking take me for?"

Yamamoto's blinked, as if his fellow swordsman has said something very strange. "I don't think you're weak!" he protested firmly.

"Then don't say such idiotic things," Squalo replied with a sullen glare. "From what I've heard that Genkishi bastard faked his own defeat. Only the victor has the right to kill his opponent in a duel, how could I possible retain my honour as a swordsman if I took the life of someone I hadn't defeated?"

The rain guardian looked surprised, staring at the Varia assassin with an unreadable expression

"Then I guess I didn't win against you, Squalo," he smiled, saying his name softly like it was more then just a string of letters. "Since I didn't kill you after all."

Squalo snorted and looked away from Yamamoto's face, his tone unusually solemn. "No, kid. That's one fight you won."

A shadow passed over the rain guardian's face, then disappeared. "Your future self sent me all the videos of your fights, you know," he said. "To draw me back to the path of the sword."

"I did?" Squalo asked. It was strange, asking about things you supposedly did in a future that no longer exited. It was one hell of a headache, at the very least.

I fought some really strong guys in the future," Yamamoto said contemplatively. "But I still think our fight was the most exiting, maybe because it was my first. I could show you the techniques I picked up from you, if you want to."

Squalo wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but the Japanese teen seemed nervous even though he was sitting perfectly still, waiting calmly for a response. There was a strange sense of anticipation in the air and the rain guardian was watching him with a look in his eyes that Squalo had never seen directed at himself before and it annoyed him that he didn't know what it meant.

"Sure," he said finally, shifting his weight on his feet. The room suddenly felt too small. "Well, have to go now, don't lose to anyone while I'm gone, kid."

"Already?"

"Yeah, Xanxus is a fucking cheapskate," Squalo grumbled. "He wouldn't let me take time off this month so I had to come here on a job."

"You're going to kill someone," Yamamoto said opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something more, then closed it.

"Several someones actually," Squalo said, his wide smirk daring the rain guardian to say something, to spout some ridiculous moral bullshit. "There have been some weapon smugglers who've become to cocky for their own good."

"I could help you, " the rain guardian said instead, and his face was as determined as his father's had been earlier in the sushi shop, but this, Squalo decided approvingly as he saw the ice in Yamamoto's eyes, was the face of a killer.

"I'm not quite that feeble yet," he replied confidently, even though he was very much aware that the dark-haired swordsman's offer had nothing to do with the fact if Squalo could defeat his targets or not. "I can take care of them on my own."

Squalo was already out of the room when Yamamoto realised he wasn't going to get a goodbye. It didn't take long before he hurried after him and fell in line next to the white-haired assassin. They both stopped simultaneously as he placed his left hand on Squalo's shoulder with an air of familiarity Squalo was unaccustomed to since becoming a Varia. He stared at the hand, then at Yamamoto and was startled as he realised they were nearly the same height.

"Come back soon," Yamamoto said, the sentence heavy with unspoken words and the intensity in his eyes boring into Squalo's skull like a drill.

"Why should I?" He sneered grumpily in return, unnerved by the change in the rain guardian.

Then Yamamoto grinned widely. "Because we're friends."

With a gaping mouth, Squalo could only stand there staring wide eyed. Friend wasn't a word tossed around easily among assassins for obvious reasons and it wasn't something he had expected from someone he had tried very hard to kill once. Had anyone else said those words to him, Squalo would have assumed they wanted something or were lying. People didn't befriend someone from Varia's elite without reason and few ever presumed to call any of them 'friend'. There was no room such things. Hearing those words from Yamamoto however, was different somehow, perhaps it was the sheer sincerity reflected in his large smile or the sharp earnestness of his eyes but Squalo believed him.

"I–," he started, for once speechless.

"As Vongola's future swords masters we have to stick together, right?" Yamamoto continued and his calloused hand was warm as it squeezed Squalo's shoulder comfortingly. "I'll watch your back and you can watch mine."

For a long time Squalo was silent, looking at the rain guardian as if he had never seen him before. "You would trust me that much?"

"I wouldn't make that offer if I wasn't serious," Yamamoto replied.

No one had ever watched his back, not unless they were ordered to and even then it was something unreliable. Not when he was a child, not when he was at mafia school already planting the seeds for his reputation as a swordsman and certainly not after he joined Varia. A man should stand on his own two legs… or not at all, that was the only lesson his father had given him that he had listened to, or at least that's what the old man had believed. The truth was that his piss-poor excuse for a father didn't have anything to do with it, it was just that Squalo's own pride wouldn't let him act any other way. He wasn't a man cut out to watch anyone's back. Despite that he slowly he raised his arm, placing his left hand on Yamamoto's right shoulder in a return gesture.

"Alright," he said, smiling almost as widely as Bel, but it was more genuine then any twist of lips that had passed over his face in many, many years. "I'll go along with it as long as you remember that rain guardian whatever; we're _both_ the requiem of rain. I refuse to accept any other kind of life," he said, his smile gone, "so do you think you can follow me on that bloody path?"

"A bloody path, huh?" Yamamoto said, the smile slowly fading in favour of a more serious expression. "I'm not sure I even have a choice anymore. It's the only job I'm fit for, in the Vongola I mean, and it's not like I can say I didn't know what I was getting into. But one thing I'm sure of, is that I'll watch your back anywhere and one day," he promised, "I'm going to catch up to you."

At that Squalo laughed. "Didn't you already beat me years ago?"

But Yamamoto only smiled faintly at him. Then a perplexed look crossed his features, almost like an afterthought. "You still haven't told me what you came here for," he said.

And Squalo started walking again, Yamamoto following after. "To see if you were still the naïve moron that spared an enemy," He said.

"So, what do you think?" Yamamoto grinned at him. "Have I changed?"

Squalo snorted. "Try asking me a question you don't already know the answer to, kid."

"Well," Yamamoto began, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess I'll know when you stop calling me kid"

"I'll stop calling you kid," Squalo said with what he told himself wasn't fondness, "when it's time for you to come to Italy. For good."

"Dad!" Yamamoto called out as they spotted his father working. "Do you need any help?"

Yamamoto Senior lifted his head, and his shoulders relaxed as he saw them. Squalo rolled his eyes; the old man should learn to trust his son's abilities more. Parental affection always seemed to impair people's judgement in one way or another.

"Not today, Takeshi," Tsuyoshi said.

"Then I'll head over to Tsuna's house," Yamamoto said. "We're going over our math homework together."

"Just be back by seven, kiddo," his father laughed.

Yamamoto grinned back and headed out. "See you later, Squalo!" he called out as he left.

"Old man," Squalo hissed over the counter when the rain guardian was gone. "You should take a better look at your son. That's not a kid anymore."

"What do you-?" Yamamoto's father started, but Squalo interrupted him.

"A word of advice," he said. "Learn to let go, or it'll end in grief for both of you."

And then he walked away, already smiling in anticipation of the fight to come.

**To be continued…**

**Author Notes:** My first ever attempt at writing Squalo…

This is probably the closest to a happy ending any of the chapters will ever have, too.


End file.
